


The Prodigal Violin

by SilverSun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But then he gets better, Drug Use, Fluff, John is a Saint, M/M, Self harm sort of, Sherlock is a train wreck, poor decisions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSun/pseuds/SilverSun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A still using Sherlock sells his violin out of desperation. When the haze of drugs clear and he understands what he's done, he vows to get clean. John helps him through and has a surprise for him to celebrate his victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prodigal Violin

**Author's Note:**

> None of the Characters you recognize are mine!  
> Now that that's out of the way, I should mention that I don't have experience with cocaine addiction, so I had to look everything up. It's not my intention to make light of it or make recovery seem easier than it is. Also, I may have gotten some things wrong, so I apologize in advance!   
> Constructive criticism is always welcome!

He had been lying on the sofa for over an hour. Lidless eyes stared back at him from atop the stone hearth. He imagined the skull listening rapt as he chattered animatedly about bears...or was it bees? He vaguely recalled a bear from his childhood that liked bees. Do bears like bees? The skull wouldn’t say even when he frowned at it. Maybe John would know? He rather doubted it. That didn’t seem like something John would care about. He should though because Sherlock cares and John cares about Sherlock. He took the skulls silence as agreement (as usual).

John had gotten home a little over twenty minutes ago, but when he saw Sherlock he just sighed. Shoulders slumping and eyes darkening, he went and closed himself up in his room. He’d been doing that a lot lately. 

Now Sherlock was a brilliant man and he knew John’s behaviour was directly related to how often he’d been using these past few weeks. John didn’t approve, but he also didn’t understand. Sherlock likened his mind to a hummingbird. In constant, blurring motion, flitting from one direction to another without pause. It was enough to make him dizzy. He needed help to slow down and focus and in this case, he felt the ends justified the means. Cocaine helped, or at least it used to. Lately it wasn’t working quite as well, or lasting quite as long and he was making his way through his latest supply at an alarming rate.

The crashes were also becoming more intense, forcing him to shoot up again quicker than before. The past week had been a constant tennis match between bliss and nightmare. Slipping slowly from euphoria to cold sweat, tremors and aches. Muscles would start fluttering under his skin, growing in strength until he was near convulsing. Equally as painful was the look in John’s eyes whenever he saw Sherlock. A mix of stress, guilt and worry warring between the friend, the doctor and the common sense telling him there was nothing he could do without his flatmate’s cooperation. 

He knew when he started to brood like this that the high was wearing off and things started to come back to him. He hadn’t had a case in eleven days and John was spending more and more time at the clinic. Mycroft was threatening to force him in to rehab and Lestrade was ignoring him until he could trust that he was at his full mental capacity. Apparently courts find it difficult to trust the evidence provided by a drug user no matter how brilliant he is. It was all too much and oh! did he want another hit! He hadn’t eaten or slept in days and he knew it was the drug’s fault, but he didn’t care. In fact, he considered it a benefit even if John’s expression tightened every time Sherlock turned down one of his gentle prods for ‘maintenance’.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered why John stuck around. He was well aware of his many faults (they were pointed out to him by most people at every opportunity) and he could see the toll it was taking. Sherlock knew though, that if nothing else, John was very loyal and seemed to genuinely care about him. He sat thinking about this for what must have been hours. Slowly his mind was clearing and it was starting to sink in just how badly he was damaging his friendship, the one healthy (by his standards) relationship in his life. He thought of how his escalating behaviour was driving the two men farther apart and he felt nausea seep in that he knew had nothing to do with the crash. What if John left? Finally decided he’d had enough and just walked out. It was almost inevitable but at the same time inconceivable. John wouldn’t leave because he was Sherlock’s. Like his violin, he was essential and Sherlock started to realise just how much he had come to rely on John. He was shaking, but it was starting to ease off so he thought he would play something for John. One of his favourite pieces might at least put him in a better mood. It wasn’t much but it was a start.

He reached in to the space at the far side of the sofa but grasped only air. Icy dread spread through his chest as memories came rushing back. Memories of desperation, a solution to his problem and a dingy pawnshop where he left his most prized possession slightly over a week ago. He collapsed back on to the sofa and his mind went numb for almost a full five minutes. He’d been given that violin when he was eight years old and had never been without it since. The instrument had seen him through so many rough times in his life that being without it now was actually making him anxious. How could he have been so stupid? He almost managed to convince himself that this was a dream. He didn’t actually do such ridiculous things and all he needed to do was open his eyes. He knew though, that his eyes were already open and that the empty space where his precious violin should be was no illusion. 

He sat motionless for nearly another half hour before he started to get angry. His first target was Mycroft. The man had eyes all over the country, half of which seemed to be constantly tuned in to his little brother. He must have known what was happening, so why didn’t Mycroft stop him? He was perfectly happy to stick his nose in everything else. Was it revenge for all the times Sherlock used it to chase him from the flat? Surely he wasn’t that petty. They didn’t get along, but Mycroft didn’t hate him that much did he? And John! John had been in the flat when he got the idea. He watched him pick up the instrument and leave. Even asked where he was going. ‘Out’ was not a valid answer and John knew it! As much as he calls his flatmate an idiot, he’s smarter than that, and judging by the resigned look he got, John knew exactly what he planned to do. He didn’t even call him on it. Why had he chosen that moment to be so irresponsible? The man could shoot a cabbie for him after knowing him less than forty eight hours, but he couldn’t keep him from making one bad decision? (He resolutely ignored the little voice that told him that trying to take that pill WAS a bad decision and John DID stop him, among many other examples.)

He worked himself up blaming everyone he could think of, beyond the point of caring if he made even a lick of sense, until he had no more anger left. The dread was back in full force though. His violin had been essential. He’d already established that. Like John, he needed it to steady himself. It wasn’t just an instrument; it was a familiarity that restored balance to him. But the drugs had taken it away, and who’s to say John wouldn’t be next? This was just one more thing in a long list that he had screwed up and he wasn’t going to let it go on. From that moment on, he was going to get clean.

  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
John felt apprehension start to build as he approached Baker Street. The worn bricks and quaint cafe’s seemed ominous these past few weeks instead of the welcoming he used to feel on his way home from work. All he wanted was a cup of tea and a good book, but he couldn’t help wondering if he would walk in to his best friend still breathing or not.

The worry gnawed at him constantly. Every time he saw Sherlock’s bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair and slightly deranged grin, he couldn’t help thinking of all the stress his body was going through. He was a doctor after all. He knew all the hormones that were being blocked. Knew his impulses for sleep and hunger, two necessities, were being ruthlessly cut off. Knew the lack of nutrition and rest was making the body strain harder to handle the abuse. He could almost see the veins and arteries constricting, making each elevated thump of his pulse a potential heart attack. Understanding all this made it unbearably worse, because he cared about Sherlock. He cared about him so much more than he should and there was absolutely nothing he could do but watch as his friend self destructed right before his eyes.

Sometimes his despair would morph in to anger that he would later feel slightly guilty about. But come on! How can that bloody bastard be so selfish? What had he done that would make Sherlock do this to him? Did he not care how much it hurt John to watch him do this to himself? Did he not care that people would mourn him if he died? Did it never even cross his mind that John would be absolutely miserable without him?

Logically John knew this wasn’t about him, but when that righteous anger and hurt roiled beneath the surface, logic just wasn’t enough to curb his internal rages. After his anger was spent though, he would always go and offer his friend food and tea in apology. Sherlock, oblivious, always refused. So it was with another resigned (though slightly relieved) sigh that he decided once more to turn in early tonight when he heard nonsensical, if enthusiastic, chatter as he entered the flat. He was just counting it as a win that the man was still alive.


End file.
